


Pour s'amuser

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Series: Second to the right [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angry Sex, Bargaining, Blood, Blood Drinking, Body Modification, Gabriel wears so much gold paint and smudged eyeliner, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Murder, Pagan God Gabriel, Power Play, Riding, Rimming, Stanford Era, Teasing, Throne Sex, Trans Character, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:35:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which somebody decides to offer Stanford-era!Sam up to a certain bloody pagan god at equinox. Guess how well that goes for them.</p><p>(And hey, just because he's not going to cut Sam's throat doesn't mean that this particular god isn't up for some ravishing.)</p><p>Of course, this is Sam Winchester we're talking about, so he's going to figure out a way to turn this situation to his own advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pour s'amuser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Janimoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janimoon/gifts), [Aria_Lerendeair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Lerendeair/gifts).



> Janimoon made me do it. She tempted me with promises of ART. So check back in a couple of days and there may be some extra pretties. ;)
> 
> Also it is aria's fault too because she is a filthy enabler and first planted the idea of 'pagan sacrifice sabriel' in our heads.

The god spread his legs wide on his throne, and surveyed his crowded hall under the rays of the midsummer moon breaking through the oak boughs overhead. And he smirked.

It was what he was best at.

“I accept,” he said, so that it rang through the hall, into the ears of every witness. And the woman squared her shoulders, and looked him up and down, and came up close to him and sank down on her knees between his thighs.

It wasn’t an amazing blowjob, but any blowjob is a good one so long as there’s no teeth.

He gave her what she wanted afterward (always afterward), and she bowed and returned to her seat, wiping her mouth and shaken and triumphant.

Those who made their way here, at the summer equinox? The god gave them what they wanted for what they offered.

Mostly.

Sometimes he gave them what they deserved instead. He’d never pretended to be a _benevolent_ deity, after all.

So far, this night, he had been asked for bail-outs, love, selfish and unselfish things, tickets to a concert, college fees for children, custody of other children, some desperate hope of employment, various changes of circumstance. In exchange he had been offered money (many times), various future promises to be called in, a recipe for somebody’s long-dead grandmother’s cupcakes, hand-made crafts, shares in an oiling company, a seedling of a rare strawberry variety, a rather nice Citroen, and a finely crafted dagger made according to medieval craftsmanship (but not nearly so fine as some he still had from the twelfth century).

He’d accepted about half of these. It had nothing to do with their intrinsic worth, and everything to do with what they meant to the supplicant.

A vampire knelt before him, with two of her kindred, and begged for a guaranteed safe den. The god lifted his eyes toward a certain pair of other eyes that he’d noticed earlier (burning over a gag in one corner of his hall) and winked. And he accepted their offer and gave assurance that their home (at this address) would be safe (except under these particular and highly unlikely circumstances).

Macbeth had been happy with the witches’ safety guarantee, after all. And the god was all about the loopholes.

Somebody offered him a kid goat. He slit its throat, and kissed its head, and spilt its hot blood over its hands, and made sure it felt no pain, and laughed. And he gave them what they wanted.

The god’s hall was broad and vast, and looked something like an ancient oak grove and something like a dance club. There was a single long table stretching from his throne to the far door, at which all the supplicants sat, and feasted at his leisure on everything from mead and bread and honey to Thai curries and smashed avocado on gluten-free bread. Many passages led into it, from the labyrinth that guarded this particular haunt of his, though as it didn’t actually have any particular location in space that was more for show than anything else. His throne was made of bone and old petrified wood and glitter, and he lounged on it like a sex icon and like the deity he was. His chest was bare, and his legs were clad in hides and fur and his feet were bare, and the sequinned feather-and-fur cape was thrown back over his shoulders, and he laughed at the world.

And every year, on just this day, anybody who knew the rituals—or who had some idea of what it meant and begged for admittance—would find themselves in this labyrinth of his from sundown to sunup, and could ask him for what they desired.

If the price was right, he might give it.

Or he might not.

On this night, he stored up power and belief for a year and more to come—and always some in reserve besides. You couldn’t be too careful these days.

A middle-aged economist placed her dying baby in his lap, and said, “Please.” And she bared her throat for his knife. “The doctors have given up. My life for hers.”

The god cocked an ironic eyebrow at her, and gathered the child up with gentle blood-stained hands. Her skin was too fragile, and her soul pulsed as strongly under his touch as her heart was weak.

“She’s, what, fourteen months? What kind of a life would she have without you or deadbeat dad in the picture?”

The mother clutched at her expensive coat, dragged it around her. She’d spent a lot on her makeup, too, but it couldn’t hide the darkness in her face.

“No,” said the god, slow, deliberate. “No, that’s not something I want.”

He didn’t watch her face fall and go desperate. He was sliding his fingers through the folds of the knitted blanket that wrapped the baby, that cushioned her fragile dark-furred head.

“You made this for her,” he said. “You put your heart and soul into this. You _hoped_.”

The woman squared her shoulders. “I did.”

He looked up at her, and cocked a smirk. “This, I will take,” he said, “if you will offer it.”

She gaped. “Not my life?”

“That’s my deal.”

“... Yes.”

“Then, darling,” and he bent his head over the baby to nuzzle her forehead, though he didn’t take his eyes off the mother, “then _I accept_.”

It was the simplest of healings, after all.

He wasn’t what he had once been.

Which was good. He was more. He had more options. If he’d been only _that_ , touching a human soul for power would have been a delicate and dangerous process. As it was, all he needed was an offering, a true one. A willing sacrifice. It didn’t matter what they gave, it mattered _that_ they gave, and that it had meaning.

The pagans had been far more creative than his first family.

A man stepped forward, and offered money, and asked that the god extend his grandmother’s life so that she might be rational enough to reconsider the terms of her will, because obviously she hadn’t meant to leave that much money to his _brother_ , who had never deserved it.

The god reached out and touched his memories and his knowledge, and said that he saw she was close to death: that the man was, in effect, asking him for a life snatched from Death itself, and what would be a fair price for that?

It was a trick question. The man fell for it: he offered a life. He offered his brother’s life.

The god smiled, sweetly, and agreed that a life was a fair price for a life. He promised that the man’s grandmother would live another ten years, and would make her own choices of her legacy in sound body and mind. Then he reached out, and tore the man’s guts from his body.

Because it amused him, and what other reason was there for anything?

When the mess of him had melted into the floor, the god turned to the girl third from the front, on the right of the bench, who was uncomfortable in her body and who had refused to eat all night because she was too proud, and who sat in an oversized Stanford t-shirt and sweatpants, shivering and glaring and now horrified.

“You know,” he purred, “eating my food? Courtesy, not obligation.”

She lifted her chin, and stood up. “Can’t be too careful with a pagan god.”

“What do you beg,” he said formally, “and what do you offer?”

“I’ve come to beg for my dorm mate’s life.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the second half.

She squared her shoulders, and dragged her t-shirt off over her close-cropped head, then dropped her sweatpants. She stood, shivering, with her goosebumped chest and shrivelled unenthusiastic cock, and stared him in the eye.

“Take what you want,” she said.

The god looked her up and down. Then he blew a raspberry.

“Put your clothes back on, girl,” he said. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Her eyes went very wide and uncertain for a moment. Then she glared at him, and tugged her clothes back on viciously.

He beckoned. She came. Her eyes looked daggers.

He spread his legs again. She stepped forward to stand between his knees, and put one hand on each of them without flinching. Her fingers dug in, hard.

“Tell me,” he said, in a low voice, “about your dorm mate.”

Her eyes slid sideways for a moment, towards that boy with the bright soul and fierce looks in the other corner of the room, who had only just realised who she was and was struggling against his bonds.

( _Interesting_ , the god noted.)

“He was taken,” she said in a fierce whisper, “yesterday. That man holding him there—Gordon Walker—he broke into our dorm when I was in the bathroom and took him by surprise. I heard him saying something about sacrificing him to you. Enough to figure out when and how to find you. So I’m here to get in his way. I offer _me_ , before his deal. To save Sam.”

The god lifted his hand, and touched her chin, just lightly. “That’s quite some deduction, sweetheart,” he purred, “to find a pagan god at a midsummer feast, from a few chance words.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got connections. Or my mom has. He doesn’t know.”

“Your name?”

“Joe.”

“Jo,” he said, and winked. “Joanna Harvelle.”

She glared at him, completely unimpressed, but her hands were trembling.

He twined them in his, and held them, just a little too tightly.

“You come before _me_ , at midsummer to offer up what you’d rather nobody ever touch. To ask a favour for somebody else?”

“Yes,” she said.

“No,” he said.

She went very still. Then she tried to pull her hands away, violently, almost as if she thought hitting him would do any good.

“Sacrifice has to be given, kiddo,” he purred, “not taken. You’re not willing.”

“I _am_ ,” she hissed. “I am! I have nothing else to give.”

“Mmmm, but you do. You’re worth more than you think, but I’m not taking it. Not for him. Tell me what you really want, girl. For you.” He lifted her bony wrist to his mouth, and brushed his teeth against the hot, throbbing life of the veins there. “There was something else you were hoping when you heard about me.”

She stared at him, lips half-parted, eyes dark and angry.

“You can’t afford the hormones, can you,” he said. “You can hardly afford food. Not a chance of surgery.”

Her breath came quick and shallow.

“Can you do it?” she whispered, quieter than ever before.

He smiled, toothy. She swallowed.

“What would I have to give?”

“Nothing you’d miss.” The god snapped his fingers, and a long wicked copper knife appeared in his hand. “It’s all in your veins. It’ll grow back in a few days.”

“Sam—”

He bared his teeth.

“His fate is in his hands. And mine.”

She looked at him, hard. Then she held out her arm.

The god threw back his head and laughed. His voice sounded resonant throughout the hall:

_I accept._

As the blade slashed toward her arm, the gagged boy in the back, he of the bright soul and burning eyes, yelled out something, some protest, muffled by the cloth in his mouth. The god noted his struggles, and her determination, and bent to drink.

Her blood rushed hot through his veins, and her soul rushed freezing and strong through all the rest of him. She was powerful; but not so powerful as the boy. The god would save him for last.

She gasped, as his tongue laved the arterial gash in her arm; latched her fingers into his hair, curled over his head, leaned her other hand on his chair. As her wits became fainter, he put his arm around her waist for support; and it was only when her senses left her that he drew back, and healed the gash with a touch, and sat up, thrumming with the power she had given him.

It was good.

“My girl,” he murmured, deep and low, in a language nobody there would understand; and he gathered her unconscious form into his lap and pressed his fingers against her throat, and checked for signs of shock.

She was pale, and a little cold, and a little papery, but he had not taken too much.

Her blood, he set to regenerate itself. But that was the least of his task.

He cradled her close, and rebuilt her as she should have been: hormones and blood, shaping of muscles and skeleton, growth of hair and focus of senses. And then there were the harder parts: tweaking the vocal cords, growing the mammary glands and the fat of the breasts, the face as it would have developed if she had had double-Xs in puberty, and the other parts that were usually hidden under clothes. And then the parts within—and _this_ was technically beyond the powers of a trickster, especially the creation of viable ovaries, but hell, he had other powers to draw on and her soul was strong.

Where his lips touched the inside of her wrist, there he left a faint tattoo shape: the head of a coywolf, grinning. Ownership, and guarantee, and protection.

This girl, he liked.

He snapped up orange juice, when he was done, and tipped it slowly into her mouth, taking care to be sure it was swallowed right. Then he sorted through her memories to find her dorm room, made sure the tiny malfunctioning fridge wasn’t and that it was fully stocked with healthy things (and would refresh itself every few days), and change all her school and ID records to show her as properly female because screw you, he could do whatever the hell he liked. Then he transported her gently back onto her bed to rest, and placed a menstrual cup on her bedside table. Because in a couple of months, when her body had figured itself out and settled down, that would be the simplest and most economic option.

Then he opened his eyes.

They shone gold, and orange, and fierce.

“You,” he purred, to the next man.

This man was an entitled fuckwit who want some woman to love him back because he’d “earned” it by buying her drinks a few times and doing all sorts of creepy shit even when she’d been giving him signals to back off for years. She had “friend-zoned” him, though, and he “deserved” her; so the god accepted his offering and winked at him, and promised that from this moment forth he was beloved of the woman he deserved.

It wasn’t half a minute before a sow broke into the hall and dashed for him, squealing and happy. She knocked him to the ground and slobbered all over him lovingly, and the god let him flee before he had his pet coywolf round her up, and bring her back to his throne, so that he could comfort her and assure her she was worth more than that.

She snuffled sadly at his foot, and he petted her ears, and sent her under the tables to scavenge for scraps.

And so it went on, all night, from sundown until two in the morning, until they were all seen to but one; and all the time, those fierce and watchful eyes bored into the god’s face, and considered him.

So finally, when there was nobody else left in the hall but only him and that boy, and the man who beside him and held his shackles, the god turned to them and looked sarcastic.

“Well?” he said; and he sprawled, and he waited.

The man holding the power— _Gordon_ —tugged at the rope fastened around the boy’s wrists, and the boy— _Sam_ —staggered forward, fuming but not uncontrolled. And he stared up at the god on his throne, slanted eyes narrow and colourful, hair tumbling about his shoulders, completely and utterly and accidentally sexy.

And, huh. Now that the god looked at him, _really_ looked at him—well, the first thing that struck him was _anger_. This kid was really, really good at it. Deep-rooted, long-practised anger. It suffused every vein and every thought. He’d almost made it into a weapon, and he’d sure turned it into a drive to succeed, and right now? On the verge of death, that anger was what kept him fighting. Right now, it was turned all against the man beside him, and against the god in front of him.

And, _oh_. This was the boy about whom the current prophet was writing those trashy addictive gospels. Handed over to this god right now a few years before time. Well, whaddaya know. This _was_ interesting.

For some reason the idiot who’d caught him had dressed him in a flowing sort of white tunic, belted loosely with rope at the waist. It only came down to his mid-thighs. And sure, the god was flexible, but what did they think he was, the kind of guy who’d chug down vintage claret like water? Some things were to be savoured, not bolted.

The supplicant was petitioning for ten years’ guaranteed protection against all supernatural beings and against the eye of the law. In exchange, he was offering this boy’s life. “From a hunter family on both sides,” he was saying; and, “virgin”. And “young and virile”.

The supplicant was a dick, apparently.

The boy’s anger flared, invisible red-white flaming out through the hall. He twisted around, hands still tied behind his back, and drove an elbow into his captor’s stomach.

There was a brief, confused struggle of limbs and knees and bruises, which the god watched with appreciative amusement and did not bother to enter. But the older man had the advantage of weight, and of not having his hands tied. The boy ended on his knees in front of the god’s throne—head stretched back toward the hand in his hair, showing a long taut throat and long taut thighs. And his eyes above his gag were defiant and furious, and beautiful.

The god stretched, and yawned, and took a long draught from his mead-horn.

“Please,” he rumbled, and the hall shook faintly at his voice, “human sacrifices? In this day and age? Do you know how hard it is to get insurance on a place like this if word gets out that I stained the carpet with human blood?”

“You killed that man, before,” snapped Gordon. His stance was wary and soldierlike, and he had a wooden stake hidden under his jacket.

The god tipped a faint wink at the boy, who was struggling and furious against the hand on his throat.

“Well, I’m cruel and capricious,” he said. “And not touching this one.”

He snapped his fingers. The boy’s gag vanished.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy shook his head vigorously, tipped his head and exercised his jaw, then spat to one side of the god’s throne.

“You’ve been reading people’s minds all night. You know my name.”

The god’s mouth curled, appreciative. “So, Sam Winchester,” said he conversationally, “how d’you feel about dying tonight to give this guy yanking your chain some guarantee of safety in the future?”

Sam stared at him suspiciously. Then he sat back, slowly, upright on his heels, and glared.

“Not really my thing,” he said, articulating every consonant sarcastically.

The god sat back, and spread his hands benevolently.

“There you are,” said he. “He’s the one making the sacrifice, he’s the one setting the conditions. What do _you_ want, Sam Winchester? What’d you give your life for?”

“Hold on,” said the other hunter, halfway to a snarl, “I’m sacrificing _him_. I’ve got things I need to do, monsters to destroy. Him and his family, they’re next thing to monsters anyway. It’s a good offering.”

The god smiled, with a hint of teeth. “Not today, pal.”

“Fine.” Gordon grabbed for the rope at Sam’s wrists.

The coywolf beside the god’s throne lifted its head and snarled, quiet, lips coiling back from teeth and ears pricked forward, lazy and sure.

“Uh-uh,” said the god. “No take-backsies.”

The rope burned Gordon’s hand, and he dropped it.

A bronze dagger appeared in the god’s hand and he spun it on his finger, considering, ever so friendly.

“So,” he said to Gordon, “you wanna go on with your offer? Gonna give up a life for the guarantee of protection? ‘Cos you saw how it went for that other guy a couple of hours back.”

“That makes no sense.”

The god shrugged. “I don’t know. Could do. I take your life in five years, make sure you don’t die in the meantime? No? What, suddenly what you’re asking doesn’t seem worth a human life? Huh. Funny, ain’t it?”

“He isn’t—” said Gordon. Then his mouth snapped shut from some instinct of self-preservation, and he looked the god in the eye. “I offer blood,” he said.

The god lifted one eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth.

“Like that boy did before,” Gordon clarified.

The god cocked his head at the coywolf, who yawned, stretched, and trotted away. Then he leaned forward, elbows on knee and chin on fist, and spoke in something like a purr.

“And you trust me to stop, before I drain you dry?”

Gordon’s gaze wavered. He looked around for a moment, at the table now empty of petitioners and scattered with the remains of the feast. But he had perhaps come too far to retreat; or else he was just stubborn.

He squared his shoulders and approached the throne.

The god stopped him, with a flick of his hand that sent Gordon staggering even from yards away.

“Oh no, _I_ don’t want to touch you. Your blood is filthy. But, Gordon Walker, _I accept_.”

The coywolf appeared in one of the doorways, and blinked lazily. Behind it came the three vampires.

“Dinner, guys?” offered the god brightly.

Gordon put up a fight. It wasn’t enough.

When they dragged him out, the coywolf yawned pointedly and stretched out to sleep on the steps in front of the throne; and Sam Winchester gaped, and turned on the god. And _oh yes_ , now all that righteous pent-up fury was directed just where it would be most fun.

“You just fed a human to vampires!”

The god dipped two fingers in hismead, and sucked them into his mouth. “Huh. Did I? Didn’t notice.”

The boy huffed, and glanced at the sprinkling of Gordon’s blood on the ground, then at the door where he’d been dragged away. He took two quick steps forward.

“He’s a dick. And he doesn’t deserve death for it, okay?”

“Oh, don’t bust a nut, kid. They won’t kill him... maybe. They’ll probably turn him. Which is a pretty damn good kind of protection against bad beasties, isn’t it now?”

“Great, so now there’s one more vampire in the world. Ten hours ago I thought vampires were extinct!”

“Uh-huh.” The god flicked a bored eyebrow at him. “And you now know exactly where they live. Isn’t that nice for you and your family?”

Sam huffed out a slow breath and visibly tamped his anger down to something intense and simmering. He rolled his shoulders, stretching them against the ache of having had his hands bound behind his back for hours, and took two wary steps toward the god’s throne.

“A trickster, aren’t you?,” he said, and the god _loved_ the heat of those eyes on him. “Shouldn’t you be surrounded by a cloud of candy wrappers?”

“Ha. So you _are_ a hunter then. And cluey enough to have earned that full ride to Stanford.”

“Not a hunter now.”And there was a flash of old anger there that had nothing to do with the god. “I got out of that life.”

The god looked pointedly around at the hall. “How’s that working for you?”

Another step closer. And he wasn’t _scared_ at all, this boy. Wary, assessing; not scared.

Interesting. And amusing.

“What did you do to Jo?”

The god drained his cup. Then he lounged his way out of his chair and stalked toward the boy. “Gave her what she wanted. What would have cost her years and a shit-ton of money she doesn’t have, and did it better than any human surgeon ever could. She can even get knocked up now, if she feels like it.”

“Why?”

Sam backed up a step, but only one, and turned his head to follow as the god circled him.

“Because she asked.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s it going to cost her later? You got a marker on her soul?”

The god hummed thoughtfully, getting closer on every turn. “Yes. Not the kind you think. I like keeping an eye on people I think are interesting. Like, for example...”

He trailed one fingertip over the back of Sam’s tensed-up shoulders. The kid flinched, but managed not to show it.

“What do you want?” he gritted out.

The god stopped in front of him, inches from him, letting him feel the warm, promising touch. And he smiled.

“You’re mine.”

“Like hell. You turned me down as an offering.”

The god shrugged. “I’m whimsical. Part of my charm. And you, kid—” running his tongue over his teeth, looking up and down the boy’s body “—you are _delicious_.”

It was only then that the boy moved, _really_ moved. He twisted his hands out of the broken remains of the rope, dived sideways, picked up a wooden stool and broke it against the table, rolled, slapped his palm into the congealing blood of the hunter (somebody that the Trickster had tricked) and wrapped that bloodied palm around the wooden stake.

Then he was on his feet. All done in a moment, hardly looking at where he was going, every distance and movement planned out in advance. Yeah, this one was _fun_.

The god parried the first blow, cackling, and they danced. And it felt like a dance, like testing each other. He was almost sure the kid wasn’t actually _trying_ to kill him. There were a couple of openings that he could have taken, a few moments when he held back when he shouldn’t have. But the fury in his punches, in the blow of his foot to the back of the god’s knees, in the elbow he drove into the god’s guts when just for a moment they tangled—yes, this was an anger that needed something to rage against.

The god shoved him up against the wall, just for a moment—rutted his hardness in against him from behind, and hissed, hot in his ear, “Not gonna force you, boy. No fun in fucking something that’s not into it. But you’re not leaving this room tonight.”

Sam slammed his head back hard, connecting with the god’s nose; and he laughed and let him go, dancing across the room, jumping up onto the table with a swirl of his cloak where he crouched like a snarling animal with one hand on the wood. Then, when Sam strode toward him, chest heaving, he stood up, and spread his arms, and _swaggered_.

“Wanna make an offering of yourself, Sam Winchester?”

Sam jumped up at the other end of the table and came for him, no hesitation, kicking bowls and platters out of the way. Which was pretty damned magnificent and the god was so turned on right now.

“Take your best shot.” The god tossed the cloak back over his shoulder to leave his chest bare, with all its delightfully swirling paint and glitter and gold.

Sam looked at him hard, eyes narrow, hefting the stake in his hand. The god cocked an eyebrow at him, a challenge. Then he put his hands on his hips and did a little shimmy.

“No, really.”

Sam snorted, like he’d almost laughed for a moment before he remembered himself. Then he drove the stake into the god’s heart.

“Huh,” said the god. “Not bad. Nice upper-body strength there.”

He tugged the stake out, and dropped it, and healed up the hole in his chest with a finger-snap. Sam crossed his arms, and gave him an unimpressed look.

The god winked. “Little secret. I’m not _a_ trickster. I’m _the_. Loki, Anansi, Coyote and so on? All yours truly. All one universal idea with a whole bunch of masks. So how well do you think the wooden stakes worked all the other times? I just like to let them think they can win.”

Sam looked him up and down, eyes dragging like a physical touch across the god’s body; and his tongue snagged on his lower lip, just the tip, wet and tempting.

“Why?” he said, one challenging syllable.

“ _Pour s’amuser_. I’m hot, you’re hot, it’d be hot.”

This time Sam did laugh, one surprised sharp bark of breath. “Seriously. That’s your sales pitch?”

The god hopped down off the table, and poured a new horn of mead. “Best one there is. ‘Sides, I only got one blow job tonight. Usually there’s at least four or five who go for the sex offer.”

“Jo _offered_.”

The god shrugged, and drained the horn, letting some of the golden beads slip out and down his neck, down his chest, to dance in the firelight. “Nah, she wasn’t into it.”

The wariness in Sam’s eyes had shifted to curiosity, and to consideration, and to heat.

“I didn’t offer,” Sam stated, and slipped down to stand with his back to the table, arms crossed, feet planted firm.

The god winked, refilled the horn, and held it out.

“You _would_ be into it.”

Sam’s mouth curled. “Anybody ever tell you you’re kinda full of yourself?”

The god fluttered his eyelashes, charming. “I tell myself that every day actually.”

There was the most delightful and doubting double-take.

“... You. _You_ ’ve seen _Ten things I hate about you_?”

“What, it’s a good movie and I’m secure in my genderneutralinity.”

Sam took the horn, curling his long fingers slowly around the carved bow of it, eyes still hot and unreadable on the god. But he didn’t drink.

The god took a step closer, into the heat of his body.

“What’d you petition for,” he murmured, “if you’d come here of your own free will.”

“Wouldn’t be such a dumbarse.”

“Oh, you’ve had your moments in the past though, haven’t you?” He tilted his head, revelled in stoking that surge of anger again, smirked against the hot long breath hissed out almost against his own mouth. “Go on. Golden opportunity. What’d it be?”

Sam’s fingers tapped a tattoo against the horn, testing. “Let me go.”

The god scoffed. “Please. I’m not a long-term kind of guy. Sun comes up, you’ll be back in your pokey little dorm with Harvelle. Make sure she stays hydrated a day or two, bee tee dubs. Nope, try again. How about protection for your dad and brother, same package the bloodbag in there was angling for?

The kid’s spine seemed to straighten and draw him up; and for the first time, he let himself smile. It was a cool, vicious kind of a smile, but it was there.

“You coming petitioning to me now, Trickster? Testing me to see what offerings _I’ll_ accept?”

The god sank to his knees, legs splayed wide around the boy’s feet—looking up at him—hands sliding into place, hot on Sam’s thighs, just teasing at the bottom hem of the tunic.

“Why,” he rumbled, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes and half-bared teeth; “would that turn you on?”

Sam’s eyes were hard and hot and unblinking, but his breath came faster when the god leaned in to nuzzle at the line of his hip, not breaking eye contact.

Then Sam’s hands locked into the god’s hair, suddenly tight.

“No,” he said, fierce and clear. “This is how it’s gonna be. Can you kill the yellow-eyed demon?”

The god whistled softly, and felt his face go blank. “You don’t bargain light, do you, kid.”

“ _Can_ you do it?”

The god’s mind raced.

Throwing a spanner in _that_ particular chain of events? Wouldn’t derail the whole big game plan altogether, wouldn’t count as picking a side or getting involved. Could go either way in a few years’ time, better or worse. But it would stir up some delicious chaos; and this god did like him some chaos.

And he wanted to see what this kid would do.

The god smiled, slow and cruel and promising.

“I can. Might take me a while to track the slippery fucker down, but I can.”

Sam exhaled in one long shudder of breath, and his eyes burned with the fire of triumph. “In front of me,” he said, “and my dad and brother.”

In that moment, just fleetingly, he looked exactly as young as he was. And that was when the god realised it. Those eyes had been on him all night—assessing, thinking. Learning.

He slid his hands up, rucking the pale linen of the tunic into dark folds, sliding his thumbs along Sam’s inner thighs.

“You’re playing me, kid,” he said, soft and steely, letting his lips tease against the hot flesh under the tunic in front of his mouth. “Knew I wouldn’t kill you since I turned down what your friend didn’t want to offer. That Stanford-hunter brain of yours has been ticking over ever since on how to get just as much out of this situation as you can. Figured out what I’d go for and pushed all my buttons just so. Making me work for it.”

Sam’s heartbeat was picking up, and his lips were wet, and he was so very hard under that stupid tunic. “Maybe,” he said, and he _smirked_. “Does that turn you on?”

... the god was so fucked.

He grinned, wide and sharp.

“I accept,” he said.

The bravado shuddered for a moment, and Sam’s fingers tightened in his hair. “ _I_ accept,” he shot back.

The god shoved his tunic up above his hips, and swallowed his cock in one go.

Sam gave a strangled yelp and staggered back against the table, clutching at the wood for support. The god let him go, just for the sudden rush of cold air against hot wet flesh, then chased the prize, nuzzling and mouthing and chuckling against his balls and the hungry pulse of the base. Sam bit his lip, and groaned, and arched into the touch with his thigh and arm muscles standing out in cords.

The god curled his tongue around the side of the shaft, and smirked.

“Told you.”

“Bite me,” panted Sam, and the god did: just a quick nip to the inside of the thigh that made him jump, and swear.

“ _Manners_ , boy.”

Which Sam could probably have contradicted if the god hadn’t swallowed him again, deeper and hotter, bringing his tongue into play: one more long, glorious moment of incoherency before backing off again, and again, alternating between too much and not enough until Sam was leaning all his weight back against the table panting and making little helpless noises, music to the most _divine_ connoisseur.

Which was, of course, the point at which the god slip his hands up between the boy’s thighs.

The first rough slide of his thumb over the sensitive centre of him made Sam twitch, and flinch. The god ducked his head, sucked his thumb wetly into his mouth, and did it again. This time Sam was ready, and pride made him push into it, rocking into the touch. One circle around the rim, two, one teasing brush and away again, massaging that delicate space behind his balls, as he suckled the tip of his cock, teased the underside with the flicker of his tongue. Then back (and with a thought it was properly lubed up) that possessive thumb pressed harder, just hard enough to cause a whimper and a twitch of the cock inside the god’s mouth. Then away, and back, and around, and squeezing both cheeks, and a little more teasing, and back again. And just a _little_ deeper every time, just a _little_ more sure, over and over, while his mouth worked smug little miracles where it was busy, until Sam yelled out muffled frustration and bore down against the next press and took him inside.

And, _yes_ , the spurt of pre-come into his mouth at that first intrusive shove was just perfect. Sam tasted fucking magnificent; but better than that was the surge and spark of his soul under the god’s touch, the pride and the triumph and the sheer physical elation, the power of this boy who could and would be so much, this fascinating tiny human speck upon the cosmos who was writhing and panting and snarling here under this one god’s touch.

And, by the way, _wow_ , how the hell’d he get so lucky?

“So tell me,” he purred (wriggled his tongue against the underside of Sam’s cock, crooked his thumb, slipped it deeper), “you who’ve been _watching_ me all night, tell me about myself. _Boy_.”

Sam gaped down at him, incredulous.

The god bent his thumb, stretched at the rim from the inside, made him squirm.

Sam licked his lips, and clenched his fists white on the rim of the table.

“You—you’ve got a strong sense of justice and a terrible sense of humour,” he said, steady in a way sounded shaky.

The god narrowed his eyes at him, sucked hard, and slid in a second finger. Sam’s eyes shuddered closed, then opened, fire-bright.

“You find pleading boring and challenges exciting. You like it when people stand up to you. You wear _way_ too much smokey eyeliner, seriously. And you aren’t nearly as capricious or unpredictable as you like to think you are.”

The god pulled off, with one last swirl of his tongue. “Watch it, kid,” he growled; and pulled his fingers wide.

Sam’s breath stuttered out of him all in a rush and he curled forward, arms clinging around the god’s shoulders. And there, yes, _perfect_ , that reaction was the best yet; so could you blame him if he teased his way deeper, fiercer, shoving in just the right spots, wringing from the boy all the most enticing noises that sounded only half human in the most optimistic light, until he was begging with every curl, every throb of his body?

And it was then that he pulled back.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Sam looked down at him, panting, uncertain, fingers digging in, delectably mussed and confused and indignant.

But hesitating.

And by this time the god knew well enough how to settle him.

He cocked an eyebrow, and smirked.

“Too much, baby boy?”

Sam’s eyes went narrow and sharp, as he took up the challenge.

He turned around.

The god rose fluidly to his feet, caught the boy’s movement at shoulder and hip and bent him forward over the table, leaning in against him, shoving him down, riding his cock hard against his arse for a moment. Blatant manhandling, and Sam fought by instinct, elbow flailing back, hand bracing against the wood to resist. The god snarled in delight and leaned in just enough of his weight, one hand between Sam’s shoulder blades.

When Sam went still, he smiled—“Good boy”—drew back, and laid a sharp slap to one buttock.

That produced an indignant noise and a highly interesting reaction, so he did it again.

“Come _on_ ,” he said, “you think I’d just shove right in there? _Obviously_ I’m going to take my time and enjoy this.”

“Stop that,” Sam gritted out.

He did it again. “When you stop enjoying it, cupcake.”

Then he shoved the tunic up properly over Sam’s back to expose a gorgeous arse, and went down on his knees to worship it as it deserved.

He bit at one cheek then went work with his mouth, long and luscious and tantalising, fingernails raking up and down the backs of the kid’s thighs. Sam gritted his teeth, and swore at him, and arched his back and made little panting pleading noises, writhing on the table, until the god just _had_ to make his tongue longer and hotter and thicker to get right up inside him, shoving and curling and pinning his hips firmly to the table until Sam yelled and whimpered his way through release.

First of the night.

The god stretched, and cricked his neck, and stood up. Then he pulled his own cock out of his pants, slick and eager.

He pressed forward between Sam’s legs, watching the quiver of his thighs, the twitch of flanks and clench of fingers on wood, the hot heavy pant of breath. The clench and release of Sam’s hole, as he rubbed the swollen tip of his own cock over it, slow and promising, pressing _just almost_ inside; back, and forward, and again.

Sam groaned, and buried his head between his arms, and spread his legs wider.

The god hummed thoughtfully, and spread a hand over one cheek and squeezed it, tugged it sideways, exposing him and pulling him open. He rode forward again, slower, until the head of him snagged on Sam and pushed him wide—promised— _almost—_ and then, as Sam moaned a broken moan and arched his hips and pushed back from the table, the god’s cock slipped forward and up, over his tailbone.

Then he turned and walked away.

He went back to sprawl in his throne, and admired the sight before him, as Sam pulled himself back together and forced himself up on his elbows.

“I do like to see a feast spread out on my table,” he purred; and began to stroke himself, lubing up his hand at his whim. (Oils had their place, but there was really no substitute for Astroglide.)

When Sam stood up and turned around, determinedly _not_ shaky on his legs, still with the light of challenge in his eyes and gloriously mussed, the god beckoned.

“Come here.”

Sam shook his hair back over his shoulders, and looked for a moment if he was considering defiance. Then he came there.

He stopped right in front of the throne.

The god patted one knee and lifted an eyebrow with his other hand still lazily riding up and down his cock.

Sam put one knee up on the throne and hesitated, eyes caught by the sight.

The god grinned.

“Bigger than you’re used to?”

“... You _wish_ , shortstack.” And Sam climbed up to straddle him.

This time the god laughed out loud with delight, reaching to gather the kid into place. Only, Sam had his own ideas. He locked his hands in the god’s hair, and kissed him like a battle.

The god surged up to meet the man, hands and force and mouth and will. Mouth open against mouth, tongue sliding against hot touch, the give and shove of passion. And that—

— _that_ was the moment in which he really consented. _Then_ Sam Winchester opened up his soul, and offered himself, and the god was suddenly swept away in the sheer torrent of what he was, the whole fucking ocean of his stormy self, and incidentally he nearly came right there and then at the rush of it.

“ _Fuck_ but you’re strong,” he gasped; and Sam growled “I’m barely touching you,” and the god laughed breathless into his mouth and hauled him up and fumbled for his cock _, needing_ to be inside him right the hell now, clinging to that soul-contact, that heady rushy immersion, for as long as he could.

Sam made a quiet needy worried noise, caught between the slip of mouths, and the god stroked a gentle shiver of nails down his back, and pulled him down slow and inexorable. He rode the thrill of his soul, delighted in the gape of his mouth and the arch of his throat and the clutch of one of Sam’s hands on his shoulder and the fist that the other made against his neck, and the flare of pleasure-pain inside the boy’s body as he shoved Sam open, bore him down, pushed up inside the delicious heat of him and made him feel it.

And then he let him _drop_ the last inch, just for the shock.

Sam whimpered adorably, dropped his mouth against the god’s chin to pant and gape while he tried to adjust, so the god petted his hip and the base of his spine, and rolled his hips maliciously.

Not _virgin_ , but definitely hypersensitive, definitely not used to it. Definitely _shocked_.

“We don’t need this,” the god declared: ran his hands up from Sam’s thighs to hips to flanks to ribs to shoulders, rucked the tunic up with him to tug it off over the boy’s head. Sam came out shaking his hair and glaring defiance, and how the fuck did he just run his hand through his hair and turn it all perfect, even when he was being fucked?

He hitched up into the warm clench of Sam’s body, into the gasp and flinch and sweetness of his reaction. Proprietary hands dragged up over Sam’s thighs, his stomach, curling around his ribs as the god bent his mouth to explore those nipples. And _that_ , that made Sam jump. So he shoved up again, set up a steady,rhythm rocking against the sweet spot, watched his face shatter and fall apart with lust and shock and resistance.

Then he bit down.

Sam snarled, and cried out, and raked his nails over the god’s shoulders. And the arch of his body went from fiery to _incandescent._

“Fuck but you’re gorgeous kid,” the god huffed, uselessly; and from somewhere, Sam dragged the presence of self to gasp, “Don’t—call me _kid_ when—fuck, ugh—when your _dick’s_ inside me.”

The god threw back his head, colliding with the coiled oaken back of his throne, and laughed to the ceiling invisibly high and arched overhead. “I’m approximately a whole bunch of millennia older than you. I’ll call you what I want, baby boy.”

“Ugh,” Sam grunted, against his next (fierce) thrust, and managed an offended expression. “Dude. That’s what my _brother_ calls me.”

“My brothers call me worse,” purred the god against his throat.

“Your brothers— _oh_.” Sam’s voice broke off in a shudder as the god found just the right angle to drive in, hard and rough, stroke after stroke after stroke. “Your—is _Odin_ your brother?”

The god sank his teeth into Sam’s pec. “No geeking out,” he growled, almost indecipherable even to himself, “when my dick’s inside you.”

Sam got it anyway, huffed out a triumphant laugh, rocked forward into his touch. Then he arched his back, trying it out, and squirmed against the shove of the god’s dick and the pull of his hands.

“Lots of brothers,” panted the god, too honest, trying to cover up. “Lots of families. Lots of names.”

Sam whined, wriggling in his lap as the god slowed his pace and withheld his stroke, trying to shove down and make him move.

The god smirked, and moved too slowly, and got his mouth _everywhere._

So did Sam; but when Sam tried to get a hand on his own straining dick, the god slapped it away.

“Don’t make me tie them behind your back again.”

Sam glared, grabbed at the back of the throne, huffed out a breathless “Screw you,” and used all that delicious anger to just fucking _ride_ him.

The god bit back his own whimpering, and his awe, and carefully gathered himself enough to lean back with his hands behind his head and let Sam do the work. He settled his facial expression to Smug.

“Maybe next round,” he purred (panted, between strokes), “if you’re up for the challenge.”

And _that_ , that made Sam’s rhythm falter just for a moment, earned him a suspicious look. So the god slid his hands down around Sam’s buttocks (how long could he be expected not to touch all _that_ , after all) and squeezed, and leaned forward because he had no self-control and nuzzled in, rough with his beard, against the boy’s throat.

“What?” he growled, “don’t want to take out some of that fuming teenage fury on my arse?”

Rage, and delight, and desire, and heat—they all rushed through Sam’s body at once, made him jerk forward and bury his mouth in the god’s neck as he came all over them both. The god laughed his delight out loud and raked his nails up Sam’s back, lifted him up and slammed him back down, bit and nuzzled at the perfect column of that throat, even as Sam’s mouth turned to seek his out again, hot and fierce.

And Sam melted into his arms: let the god fuck him as strong and sure as he liked.

 

***

 

He snapped his fingers.

The two of them tumbled onto a bed, piled high with furs on top of insanely high thread-count sheets, because the god liked both these things.

He also cleaned them both up with a thought, because getting jizz all over fur was just not pretty.

Sam rolled onto his back, and winced, and panted, grinning behind his hand.

“So,” he said, and smirked at the god beside him, “wasn’t really a virgin.”

The god picked up Sam’s hand, and bit at one of the fingers, not too hard and not too soft.

“Never thought you were, princess,” he said, “but there’s plenty you haven’t done. And there’s hours left ’til dawn.”

 

***

 

Five weeks later, the grinning coywolf ‘tattoo’ inside Sam’s left wrist heated up for a moment, and itched. When he looked at it, he found that a speech bubble had appeared beside it. The coywolf seemed to be saying:

_Ten tonight, bottom of the fire escape. Time for a roadtrip!_


End file.
